When Two Strike A Deal
by KatyaX
Summary: Snape is horribly overworked, what with being a doubleagent. He sure could use an assistant... What's that you say? Miss Granger has some free time? Not your typical apprenticeship story. Snarky, sarcastaSnape abounds. Some drama.
1. Chapter 1

When Two Strike A Deal

Hermione Granger's toes were nearly frozen and her fingers, though shoved in her robes and under her arms, were not far behind. She was thankful that she had mastered wandless magic years earlier because she was loathe to remove her hands from their hiding spots if she needed to use her wand.

"_Purgo lebes plene, expello non volo humus_," she commanded. All twenty cauldrons in front of her seemed to vibrate for a moment, and then they glowed from within. The sticky grime and leftover ingredients that had caked on the insides lifted out of the cauldrons and then vanished from sight.

"That was a rather efficient bit of spellwork," a low, bored voice droned from behind her.

Without turning around, Hermione smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment. Hmm... That's two this week. What disgusting and all-together offensive task do you have waiting in the wings for me?" With her hands still tucked under her arms she turned to face Professor Snape. He was leaning in the doorway between the potions' classroom and his office, his arms folded in a similar manner, but he didn't look cold in the slightest.

"Nothing all that... sinister," he assured. "Crushing Grumblebumble parts," he answered when she raised her eyebrows in interest.

"Ah. Fourth year antidotes," she said.

He raised an eyebrow himself. "You remembered. I'm touched."

"If you had any idea how many extra flagons of anti-hysteria potion I've had to make for Neville since... I considered becoming an apothecary for a whole year thanks to you." Snape said nothing but the corner of his mouth twitched against his will. "Did you still want me to grade those third year essays, or just the Grumblebumble parts?"

"Just the Grumblebumble parts. It's nearly eight. I'm sure you have plans."

Hermione suppressed another smile. After a year and a half she had never made plans for the same night as one of their after dinner work sessions. "No, sir, I don't have plans. If you want me to stay and finish the essays, I'd be happy to. Ah, under one condition, though," she added.

"Oh? A rare request. I'm intrigued," he drawled.

She ignored his sarcasm. "Let me light a damned fire? You keep it stone cold down here."

"Down here is made of stone," he countered.

She walked along a conversational line that her peers would define as precarious, but that she knew well. "And you are a very powerful wizard with command over such mundane things. So. Light me a fire?" she asked again. Wordlessly he moved aside and a nice warm glow emanated from the office. "You're getting to know me," she said, impressed.

"I'm getting tired of you complaining that I don't keep it warm enough down here."

"You don't." She brushed past him and reveled in the warm office. "If you just lit the damn thing before you left for dinner, it wouldn't be so freezing here when we get back."

"And if you'd just learn to charm your cloak to keep you warmer, then we'd both be comfortable while we worked." He slammed the door behind him and the bottles on the wall shelves rattled. But he always slammed the door like that, and after a few weeks she didn't even flinch anymore. He watched her take off her cloak and place it neatly over the back of the sofa. There were two piles of scrolls lying neatly on his desk and with a beckoning motion she floated the pile on the left on to the floor in front of the fire. He watched her settle herself on the floor by the grate and open the first scroll.

Snape copied her silent summoning spell, only set his pile on the coffee table behind her. He liked it cold, didn't particularly care to sit in front of a roaring fire even with the quintessential cup of cocoa. But for the last eighteen months he had been trying to be polite. So instead, he lit the fire when she asked, didn't complain when she saw to it herself, and charmed his cloak to keep him cool so he could sit on the sofa and still be comfortable while they worked.

She'd started working with him at the beginning of her sixth year. Things hadn't always been so civil between the two of them. Their first night working together he'd nearly reduced her to tears, and two weeks later she'd stormed out of his office leaving her cloak behind in her fury. This he had a house elf return to her later that night, along with a note that read simply, "Sorry." Then he remembered the first time in conversation she'd nudged the envelope a bit too far and yet he did not snarl. It had been a kind of paradigm shift worthy of a celebration, or so she said later that night before she'd left his office.

How they had come to work together had been a kind of odd combination of circumstances that had somehow managed to layer one upon the other. The end of her fifth year had seen her recovering from the wounds she'd received from Dolohov at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. She wasn't in the hospital wing more than a few nights, and had she not already taken her O.W.Ls, Snape thought, she wouldn't have even stayed that long.

Soon after she'd recovered and the school term had come to an end they'd met up again at Grimmauld Place. Well, "met up" was not exactly the phrase an observer of the full course of events would have used. They had literally run into each other in the stairway going down to the kitchen, and had he not knocked her down and caused her cry out and clutch her stomach, he would have kept going without a second glance.

"Fuck," he hissed when he realized what he'd done in his haste. He'd gone to hunt for Dumbledore, who was supposedly meeting Lupin at the house. The frustration and the aggravation of that evening's earlier events at his house in Spinner's End had enveloped him. Narcissa and Bellatrix were hardly out the door before he'd pulled on his cloak and, with near panicked desperation, apparated to Grimmauld Place to speak with the Headmaster. He hadn't even seen Granger there in the darkness of the stairwell.

He'd knelt down next to her at the bottom of the stairs and put his hand behind her head as she leaned against the wall. She whimpered a moment then hissed as a sharp sting coursed across her chest. She'd blinked at him in the dark and looked at him confused. "What're you doing here, Sir?"

He'd wanted to laugh. He'd knocked her down a flight of stairs and probably reopened some of the wounds Dolohov had given her, and all she wanted to know was what he was doing there. "None of your business. Come, Miss Granger, let's have a look at you. What other injuries have you sustained now?" He helped her to stand and he flicked his hand in the general direction of the sconces on the wall. They flared and he looked her up and down. "Your wounds? Have they worsened from the fall?"

Hermione took a moment and mentally checked herself over from head to toe. "No. No," she decided. "I'm all right." She looked down. He was holding her hand. They jerked their arms apart and both took a step away from each other. The house seemed deafeningly silent. "I'm all right," she whispered again. "Um… What…?"

"Am I doing here?" he finished for her. "No matter. Where's Dumbledore?"

"No idea, Sir. He left about twenty minutes ago. He and Professor Lupin were in the drawing room upstairs. I'm afraid Professor Lupin has also gone, just a moment ago," she added. Her hand went to her stomach again, and even in the dim light growing steadier she appeared green.

"You're hurt," he insisted. "Who else is here? Where's Molly?"

"She's returned to the Burrow for some things, and she took Ginny with her. Ron and his brothers are with Mr. Weasely, Sir."

"And you've been left alone?" he snarled.

"Unintentionally, Sir," she insisted, obviously trying to defend the Weaselys. "Professor Dumbledore was already gone, and Professor Lupin got an emergency floo a moment later. Mrs. Weasely is due back within the hour," she added.

Snape smirked sarcastically but held his tongue. "Are you quite certain you're all right, Miss Granger?"

"Absolutely, Sir." Snape nodded briefly and brushed the hair out of his eyes. He started for the stairwell again. "Sir? What did you need the Headmaster for?"

He stopped but did not turn to look back at her. "That is most definitely none of your business, Miss Granger."

"Yes, Sir. It's just…" He stopped again, and before he could tell her off, she continued. "It's just that the Headmaster told Professor Lupin that he would not be back for several weeks. At least, that's the short version."

Snape snapped to attention. "You do realize that it is in no one's best interest for you to repeat what you've overheard spoken between Order members, even if it is related to other Order members? That your reiteration could breach a confidence - "

"Yes, Sir," she interrupted. "It's just that Professor Dumbledore asked me to tell you that."

"And why, pray tell, would he have done that?"

"I don't know, Sir. But it seemed that he suspected your arrival this evening. That was why Professor Lupin let me stay here while he was gone."

Snape didn't speak for a moment, but then he finally nodded. He was about to say good evening when he remembered she was alone in the house. Even with the house being unplottable and warded he did not think leaving Granger in the state she was in, without back up, was a very good idea. "Still, you should not have been left alone. I'll be in the drawing room until Lupin or the Weasely's return."

"I was just cleaning up from dinner, Sir, but there's a great deal left over. Would you like me to make a plate up for you?"

Snape very nearly laughed at her, but he was too aggravated. "I'm not hungry." His hand was still on the banister and he decided not to hesitate any longer.

* * *

A/N: Hermione's spell is a variation of the idea of "Scourgify!" or "Tergeo!" Basically, she's banishing the dirt (to the land of wind and ghosts, much like Mistah Spakuru in that Simpson's episode, lol) I don't think I fouled up the time line too badly. You'll have to read the next few parts and let me know. 


	2. Chapter 2

Once in the drawing room it only took him a few moments to find Sirius's stash of fire whiskey in a receded shelf behind a wall hanging. It hadn't even been locked up. A house full of Weasely children, he scoffed, and several bottles of fire whiskey lying out in the open. Merlin, he hated Sirius. He popped the top off of the decanter and poured himself a healthy measure of liquor.

Throwing it back he remembered Narcissa Malfoy's cracked and desperate voice. She'd begged, begged him to protect her son. He'd made the Unbreakable Vow, and Bellatrix had bound them herself; there would be no way to undo the knots he'd tied tonight. Was it the alcohol or the fear that made his stomach lurch just then? And where the fuck was Dumbledore, he thought. Why now, why when he needed the old man more than ever? Albus's brain worked like a thousand cogs and wheels all humming along in perfect, though sometimes illogical, order. If anyone could find a loophole, a roundabout, anything, it was Albus.

A second, then a third glass, and he settled down into a dusty wing-backed across from the fire. It had been glowing steadily since he'd entered. It was possible Lupin or Dumbledore had used it just a while earlier. Well, they wouldn't need it if they returned, he reasoned, and he put the fire out with a wave of his hand. But he's not coming back, he reminded himself. "You're fucked," he whispered quietly.

"I'm sorry? I didn't hear you."

Snape whipped around in his chair, startled. Hermione Granger was standing there holding two plates heaped with food and a pitcher of something floating at her elbow.

"I'm sorry, but I knocked several times. When you didn't answer… Well, I was going to eat up here anyway. May I join you?" She stood in the doorway with a questioning look towards the shadow she assumed was Professor Snape.

"I thought I told you," he rumbled, "that I was not hungry."

"Then I'll eat your plate too," she said wearily. "I'm starving. I slept nearly all day, missed breakfast and lunch." Without waiting for him to agree or protest, she sat down in the chair across from him, set the plates on the low table between them, and pulled out her wand. She relit the fire he'd just put out (much to his annoyance) and then flicked on the sconces around the room. He looked at her with absolute disgust as she picked up her plate and the fork she'd carried in with it. She looked up as she took her first bite and she stopped before it met her mouth. "It's all right, it's really quite good, Sir." When he the look of revulsion did not remove itself from his face, she said again, "Sirius Black is dead, Professor Snape. You're drinking in his house; you might as well eat now, too."

He wanted to backhand her for her insolence. How dare she speak to him like that? Snape's nostrils flared and he set his jaw. He was about to open his mouth and tell the little chit off when she looked up and smiled tiredly at him. "You look like you've had a rotten day, Sir. Would you like to talk about it?"

What, in the five years they had known each other, would ever make Hermione Granger think that he would ever willingly want to talk to him, he thought. He was torn between storming out of the room and attempting to apparate home - if he could manage without splinching, for the effects of the fire whiskey had certainly begun to hit home - and telling her to go fuck herself because she had no idea what kind of can of worms she was threatening to open. Besides, his swirling mind whispered, she lit that fire again. Made it all hot. Can't think when it's hot. Stupid chit, he thought again. Instantly he flicked his hand again and the fire went out.

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, I should have asked first, then. It's just that the house gets so cold at night."

Snape, who had been getting progressively warmer and more uncomfortable as the alcohol kicked in, said "I like it cold."

She set her fork down and nodded. "I suppose, what with spending all your time in the dungeons, you must get used to it." Her hands went to her arms. Though covered with the long sleeves of her robes, she was obviously still chilly. Feeling marginally worse about knocking her down the stairs earlier, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at her. "Mitis tepidus amiculum," he said. She looked alarmed for a moment, but then realized that the warmth which came over her then was comforting and not some kind of punishment for speaking out of turn.

"That's so much better, Sir, thank you. I've been trying to work that one out since last winter," she admitted. "But I always set some part of my cloak on fire." She looked as sheepish as Longbottom, he thought.

"And how is it that Hermione Granger could not accomplish something so simple?" he sneered.

She looked a little annoyed at his sarcasm, but, seeing as he could not take house points off or give her detention in the middle of summer, she bristled right back. "I suppose it's my lack of motivation. Most people," she emphasized, "are polite enough to light a fire when it's this cold." She picked up her plate again and began to eat.

He tucked his wand away. "Your attempt at cheek is pitiable. Your quivering lip always gives you away."

"And your stomach gives you away," she said crisply, for it had rumbled as if to punctuate his last insult. "Now eat," she insisted. "Perhaps that will allow the fire whisky to run its course a bit more smoothly."

Snape, who had began to wonder why he ever put his wand away, sneered again. But before he could say another word, she leaned over, pushed the other plate closer, and went back to eating. Finally, when he saw he could not shake her, he reached down and took the plate heaped high with duck and stuffing.

They sat and ate in silence. The occasional clink of a fork or the pouring of pumpkin juice or fire whiskey interrupted the peace. It wasn't until Snape had cleaned his plate and returned it to the table that Hermione spoke again. "Can I get you something else, Sir?"

"You're not a house elf," he said, though not as rudely as per usual. "You don't have to serve me."

"I'm not, Sir. I'm being nice to you." She had said it so simply that it took Snape several moments to process what she had said. "It's really not as big of a deal as you might think," she said softly. With that she collected the plates and the pitcher and left the room. She returned a while later with two bowls of treacle tart and a large coffee pot and cups trailing behind her as the pitcher had. She handed one bowl to Snape and then poured him a cup. "I'm going to assume, Sir, that whatever it is that's brought you here at such a late hour and in such a foul mood, and which has given you reason to break into Sirius's private stash, is something that probably requires a good strong cup of coffee right about now." When he did not take the proffered cup, she said, "If I've assumed wrong, Sir, I can make some tea, but somehow I don't think I'm wrong."

He glanced up her and took the cup. "What makes you think you can assume anything about me?" he drawled. "Ever the inquisitive little answer-monger. You can't go five minutes without learning something, can you?"

"No. I suppose I can't. But I daresay the alternative is much more distressing. I can't think of anything sadder than someone who doesn't have an interest in learning anything new."

"Perhaps what you should seek, child, is a middle ground."

Hermione wasn't sure if that had been an insult or not, but decided to play it safe and assume that it was benign. "Well, perhaps if my interest was met more often, I would be satiated more often. Perhaps many things pique my interest." She took sip of her coffee and said no more.

Snape picked at his dessert and he slowly began to realize the absurdity of the evening. He should never have answered the door. Narcissa, who he'd known since they were children; Bellatrix, who he'd ravaged one night before her wedding; Wormtail, for whom he had no fondness or interest but with whom he was forced to share his home under orders of the Dark Lord. What a fucking tangled web, he paraphrased, recalling some bit of Muggle literature he'd come across years ago.

"And here we are, adding another strand," he thought with a glance at Granger. Merlin, he'd knocked the girl down a flight of stairs, he reminded himself. And here she was offering him dessert. Where the hell was Lupin, or Molly? And why did Dumbledore have to disappear on the very night he needed him? Why did he have to be in the Hogshead fifteen years ago?

Her interest piqued? he thought. What the hell did that mean? And why did Sirius have to have such small decanters? Where was that other bottle? He looked around.

Hermione shot a look at him, and then nervously went back to her tart.

"You…" he started. "Where's the other bottle?" he asked suspiciously.

"What other bottle?" she said, still not looking up.

"There was a bottle," he sneered. "A full bottle, besides the decanter. Unopened, even."

"Sorry. Didn't see it." She kept her head down.

"Look, you miserable little - "

"Merlin's beard," she hissed, "if you're upset about something, the last thing you'll want to do is keep drinking. If Professor Dumbledore showed up right now, would you want to talk to him after another four or five jigs?"

"You said the Headmaster was not coming back for several weeks," he hissed.

"That's not the point, is it, Sir? Mrs. Weasely certainly wouldn't like to find you here, smashed, then. Have another cup of coffee, Sir," she added, reaching out for his cup.

He didn't answer for a moment, then said, "I haven't finished this one." She said nothing but poured herself another. He contemplated her a moment, then finished off the cup he held. He reached out for another and she poured it.

"I won't ask you again, but if you'd like to talk about something, Sir, I'd be happy to listen. And," she added, seeing the look of disdain cross his face, "I won't repeat any of it, Sir."

"And what do you think my telling you will accomplish? That is, if I even have anything to tell."

Hermione considered this a moment and reasoned, "I suppose nothing, except to make you feel a bit better."

The scoff he'd been internalizing for the last half hour finally broke through and he actually started to laugh a little. He looked away and shook his head. "That really is too bold, Miss Granger."

She set her coffee cup down. "I'm sorry then. I didn't mean to pry, Sir."

"No, of course not. Just like you never mean to pry, with all your questions, and your impossible inquisitiveness… Piqued your interest, I'm sure. More like morbid curiosity. Tell me, Granger, did you perhaps hope to glean the details of some pathetic tale, some sad story of mine, and recount them to your little friends? What bated breath you have for my misery!" he sneered.

This accusation produced the desired affect, and she stood up indignantly. Her hand went to her stomach and the ache her wounds had left there, but that did not detract from her fury. But then, instead of frighteningly running out or bursting into tears, she did something Snape had not expected. "Accio fire whiskey!" she snapped. A dark dusty bottle flew from behind the settee and into her hand. She thrust it at him. "I should banish it, but it's not my responsibility to look after you away. Take it!" she shouted. "Drink it all, for all I care." When he did not reach out for it she set it harshly on the table and they were both surprised it did not shatter. Without stopping to collect the dessert bowls and the coffee things she headed for the door, grumbling something about ungratefulness and something else Snape couldn't make out.

A/N: Snape's spell simply charms Hermione's cloak to become gently warmer.


	3. Chapter 3

Her hand was on the door knob when she felt a rush of his approach behind her. His heavy hand was on her shoulder and for a split second she reached for her wand. But the look on his face, even in the shadows of the room, assured her otherwise.

"Miss Granger, there are things in this world that can cause a man to die though he walks and talks. Things that can cause a man to become but a shadow. No one should have the power to exist in two places at once, nor should one wish for such a thing. It was said once that the Dark Lord led a cursed half-life, for he survived only through the means of forbidden magic. But I tell you, a half-life is better than a double, for it is much easier to be less than you are than more." He reveled in it, dropping the massive bomb that he was now holding above her. How good it would be to put her irritating nosiness to a rest. "I have been, under Dumbledore's orders, in the confidence of the Dark Lord Voldemort." He felt her stiffen and he smirked. "You still cringe, girl, at his name? I would have thought more of you."

"It is not his name, Sir, but your grip."

She wiggled out of his grasp and he realized that his fingers had been digging into her shoulder the whole time. She had a hurt look in her eyes but she did not seem afraid. "No, of course not," he thought. "She'd far too interested in the answers to be afraid. She'd dance with a blast-ended Skrewt if it meant I would divulge my secrets."

She was cornered now between him and the exit, for his arms were pressed against the door on either side of her. He was much too close, she thought. His breath flicked strands of her hair and she could smell the sharp fire whiskey mellowed by the coffee. She'd set her jaw and looked up. Where his pupils ended and his irises began, she was not sure. It was so dark in the drawing room with the fire out. She gave a little shiver and neither one of them was sure if it was the temperature in the room or their closeness. "Go on, Sir," she said quietly.

Snape frowned. Was she… Still interested? The room swirled as he stared down at her. Half a fifth of fire whiskey didn't seem like a lot, but it had been on an empty stomach at first, he reminded himself. Fine, she was interested; she maybe even cared, knowing her. So he'd tell her. He moved a step closer and lowered his voice even more. "You see, Miss Granger, I was cornered tonight too, and it was with foresight that only Albus Dumbledore could posses that I was able to slink my way through the obstacles thrown at me. I've made a shitty vow with someone I shouldn't have. It would seem that one of my fellow Death Eaters - Yes, Miss Granger, for that is what I still am - required… My assistance in protecting someone dear to her. She was so desperate, in fact, that she insisted that I make the Unbreakable Vow." Hermione's brow furrowed then and she looked shocked. "Then you know the Unbreakable Vow, Miss Granger. You know that another must bind the one making the promise to the one he is swearing to. I swore tonight to a Death Eater my allegiance, and it was bound and witnessed by another Death Eater. So you can understand, then, that I am not only wont to be released of this vow, but that it is impossible for me to be so."

"This promise you made, Sir. Does it have something to do with…" She trailed off and changed directions. "You're a double-agent," she started again, "and this promise interferes with that. You're caught in a contradiction."

He nodded. "It would seem so." Even in the dark Hermione could see the far-off distant look on his face. He was no longer glaring at her, but rather staring off a little past her right ear. Hermione wondered just briefly if Lupin or Mrs. Weasely was to return then and find her and Professor Snape in this odd tête-à-tête. Lupin might be reasoned with, and even Molly wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later. But Ron and Harry would hex him to holy hell, and no good would come of that.

"May we move back to our chairs, Sir?" she said quietly.

He searched her eyes a moment before he smirked. "Why, Miss Granger? Do I make you nervous?"

"No more tonight, Sir, than ever before," she replied truthfully. "I would hate for someone to misunderstand."

Even in the haze of the alcohol he could see her reason. He nodded and let her pass, watching as she ducked away and returned to her chair. She poured herself another half-cup of coffee and looked back at him. It was not until he returned to her side that she seemed to relax a little.

"I take it, Sir, that you're pressed for time during the year. It must be very trying to be in two places at once." She wondered how much he knew of her time turner use in her third year. "Grading papers, preparing lessons. Your obligations at school must seem rather mundane in comparison to reporting directly back to Lord Voldemort."

He looked up at her but she was looking into the fireplace. Apparently she had no trouble with the name.

"You probably don't need it, seeing as I never suspected all year that you were being subjected to such trials…" It was not in a Slytherin's nature, she realized as Snape sat in front of her, to ask for help in the normal way. And it was certainly not in Snape's nature alone to ask a Gryffindor for her aide, especially when that Gryffindor was Hermione Granger, the mud-blood. She'd been going about opening him up all wrong, she realized. If she'd known the extent of his dilemma she would never have pressed on the way she had. "I suppose, if you could use someone to… Assist in the more routine of your responsibilities, then I could be of service." She had tried to choose words that didn't directly imply Snape's need for help. She must have insulted him terribly that evening, trying to appeal to a side of him that would never show itself to a Muggle-born Gryffindor fifth year.

Snape, who did not think he had even begun to sober up enough to even start having this conversation, arched an eyebrow and attempted to laugh. "I've got to get the fuck out of here," he thought. "This night has been absurd enough."

"Not that you need it," she said again softly. "After all, I would think that Professor Dumbledore would have already seen to it that you had all the extra assistance that you could possibly need."

Even as she stared into the fireplace she could see his eyes dart back up to her. If she played it very coolly, then perhaps she could do something especially helpful for both the Order and for Professor Snape. The idea of helping out the Order was all the compensation she needed to work that closely with him

Snape settled back into his chair. Dumbledore had done nothing of the sort, actually. With this realization he almost laughed in contempt. How much easier would this last year have been if he'd had an assistant? Damn, he should have thought of that himself. Granger was on to something, there, he had to admit. Maybe he could keep a closer eye on Draco if he made the boy his aide… He rolled his eyes. Draco was barely scrapping by in Potions himself. He was no better qualified to grade essays than Crabbe or Goyle. Or their fathers, for that matter, he added. Why did all his friends have to be so fucking stupid?

Granger was beginning to clear up the dessert things. Snape considered downing another couple of shots of fire whiskey before he committed to what he was thinking about doing. The combination of spending every other moment with Granger and trying to protect Draco without either of them finding out the other was… Well, impossible. Draco had this annoying habit of barging in announced to his office, and Granger was too smart not to deduce what Snape was up to. But as he thought about it more and more, he slowly reasoned that this would not be much more difficult that keeping Voldemort in the dark about Snape's dual allegiance to Albus Dumbledore. And Draco and Hermione did not posses Legilimens, he furthered. Wouldn't that make it nearly foolproof?

"Miss Granger." His hand was on her arm again but she did not squirm away as she had before when he cornered her.

"Yes, Sir?"

"It has come to my attention that one or two particulars of my present situation could be… alleviated with your assistance. Therefore, if you are willing to make time during the next term, I suppose I could take you on as a sort of… Assistant."

Hermione nodded. "I can make time, Sir." She glanced at the hand on her shoulder and back at him. He removed his hand and leaned back in his chair a little and pressed his fingertips together. He fixed his gaze on a point not quite within the parameters for Hermione to meet it again.

"You can stop ending every statement with 'Sir,' if you'd like. Once every four or five sentences will suffice."

"Yes… Professor."

The front door opened then and the sound of a hall full of a Weaselys echoed through the house. Snape rolled his eyes. Finally. "Ah, damn it," he thought. "Don't roll your eyes again. You're really quite drunk still. Sit down, hide, let the gaggle pass and then make your escape." Hermione was about to go meet them in the hall when he called her back. "Miss Granger. Your first task is to ensure that I am not disturbed. Unless Professor Lupin returns, you're not to let anyone in this room."

"Of course, S-- Right." She marched purposely out of the room and he was left alone in the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

And now there she was curled up on his rug reading those dreadful essays for him. Her whole sixth year had been spent trying to keep Potter in line, falling in and out of love with Weasely, fighting Death Eaters, and, eventually, thinking Snape a murderer. She'd fought bravely and cleverly that night at the Astronomy tower. And as he made his retreat from the school that night she'd looked at him, really looked at him, and said "Good luck." And she'd meant it. She'd covered him from jinxes as he escaped to the grounds.

At the time, he'd been keeping company with her for just over a year. Out of fear of endangering her or compromising her in some way, he never told her all of his plans. As he was not one to share, this was much easier than some might have found it to be. But she did know that if Draco did not succeed in his plans to kill Dumbledore then he, Snape, would be bound to do it for him. She was to say nothing, tell no one that he was certainly innocent. For if she did, it would surely mean his death at the hands of the Dark Lord. He would have to be acquitted by the Wizengamot to shake suspicion in the eyes of Voldemort. And if Voldemort were to fall before that happened, at least the remaining Death Eaters would not come after Snape for being a traitor to the Dark Lord.

None of the Death Eaters present that night would be so stupid as to reveal that Snape had killed Dumbledore lest they explain to their master why they had let Snape interfere in Draco's task. So Snape returned to Grimmauld Place to be apprehended by whoever should find him first. All he had to do was survive long enough for a trial if he got hexed to holy hell by one of his former Order members. He hoped Tonks, or perhaps Arthur Weasely would find him first. If he could just avoid Lupin or Moody, perhaps he'd keep his head.

But Hermione found him first, as planned. She snuck him food and supplies until he was discovered by the Auror Dawlish. He'd almost died that night. Snape had come along as peacefully as he dared and hoped to stay alive long enough for Dumbledore to amble though enough portraits to arrive and testify at his trial.

Hermione hadn't been able to talk to him since that night, though she'd tried to attend his hearing at the Wizengamot. Audience members had been barred though, and the last time she'd seen him at all was at the Ministry, outside of the courtroom, as he was being led in under the supervision of five Aurors, their wands pointed at his head. He'd met her eye again then, just before he disappeared behind the door.

Two miserable months in and out of Azkaban to sit at his trial followed. One would think that Dumbledore's testimony from his portrait would have been enough, but seeing as the Ministry had yet to apprehend Draco, Snape was their scapegoat, and a very good one too. It didn't help that nearly half the Wizengamot were apprehensive about basing a man's life or death on the testimony of a portrait - Even if it WAS Dumbledore.

Minerva, thankfully, had been easily convinced and Dumbledore had explained to her why she must reinstate Snape at Hogwarts once he'd been declared innocent. To uphold the illusion that Draco had indeed killed Dumbledore, Snape had to be allowed back into the fold.

He'd returned to his office, to his job, to the only thing he had left, and found her there on the sofa. She had a gigantic book spread out on the low table in front of the fire. Her back was to the door, but she spoke when she heard the door open. "Professor Archer, there was an owl for you last night. I left the message on your desk."

Professor Archer? Snape thought. Then Hermione did not know he was returning. Of course, Minerva had not know that Hermione was his assistant, nor was she an official member of the Order, so it was likely that no one would have thought to tell her when he was returning. All the parents in the wizarding world thought Draco had killed Dumbledore, so no one would have been making a big deal about his return to teaching. Perhaps the students who had anticipated never having to sit another class with him as their instructor would be disappointed, but he doubted anyone else would have noticed.

He dropped his bag by the door and hung up his traveling cloak. Snape pulled his wand from inside his robes and lit the fire over her shoulder. She looked up at the fireplace and then spun around, her gigantic book falling to the floor.

"Oh, God," she said softly. He'd never seen her move like she did. She'd climbed over the back of the sofa in a heartbeat and was wrapping her arms around him before he could even say hello. "Oh, God," she said again. It sounded foreign. He rarely heard wizards say "God" and he had never heard Hermione say it ever. His arms hovered at his sides. She seemed to be enveloping him with her robes and hair. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Hello to you too," he whispered.

That had been mid-September, and now it was three days until Christmas holiday. Four months since he'd returned, but they had fallen back into it easily, although Hermione could have used an assistant of her own. She was operating as Potter's research department and still attempting her N.E.W.T.s. Before he had gotten back, she'd introduced herself to Professor Archer as his unofficial teacher's aide. Thankfully Archer was a bit lazy when it came to tedious paperwork and course schedules and grading; he accepted Hermione without question. This allowed her access to Snape's private library to accompany the pass she'd been given by McGonagall to the restricted section. She'd been excused from all classes on her own discretion need she attend to matters concerning Potter and Weasely's search.

If Voldemort was vanquished by the end of her seventh year, she was planning on going away in the fall to Cambridge. She'd already been accepted. He had tried to gently dissuade her, but Muggle-borns seemed to tend to opt for a few years at university once leaving Hogwarts. He stopped trying to talk her out of it once she threatened him with explaining the Arithmancy chart she'd devised to determine which school she should apply to and why. It was foolish to expect her to stay, he told himself. This was her last year at the school and she should not be sequestered to it. She would be leaving anyway. If Voldemort was not defeated by the time she left Hogwarts she would join Potter and Weasely in finding the Horcruxes he'd devised.

Snape had offered her an apprenticeship to try and get her to stay, but either she couldn't wait to escape the walls of the castle or she really was hopelessly devoted to Potter and Weasely. Either way, there was no keeping her. He'd only taken her on as an assistant because she'd talked him into while he was drunk. But he'd kept her because he liked having her around. Snape had not been surprised when he'd returned to his office to find her there. He'd almost expected it. But he had been surprised when he found he would have been disappointed if she hadn't been.

Hermione, parchment still in hand and reading, got up and made her way to Snape's desk. He watched her, still reading, open the top draw and pull out a little pot of red ink.

"You know, you could ask me before you go through my personal things."

She walked past him but didn't look up. "I've been asking for two years, Professor. Perhaps if you ever had said "No" before, I would think twice." She sat back down on the rug and unscrewed the ink, then made some corrections on the page.

"Well then," Snape said in a supercilious manner, "maybe I'll just stick some wards all over my desk so you can't get near it."

"And maybe you could just leave the ink out once in a while so I wouldn't have to search for it."

He scowled and the parchment dented under his fingers. "Maybe you could just bring your own damn ink."

Hermione, who still did no look shaken despite this exchange which her friends might otherwise find precarious, looked up and smiled. "Well, maybe, if someone paid me for all the time I spend down here helping out, I could afford my own damn ink." Teacher's correction ink was expensive, as it was charmed so as not be susceptible to students trying to change their marks. It was a moot point though, because students at Hogwarts weren't allowed to buy correction ink anyway. She bit the inside of her check to keep from laughing.

Snape scowled again but said nothing. He finished marking the essay he was holding and then reached for another roll when he was done.

"The fifth ingredient to be added to the draught of peace is four grams of crushed mandrake root," he read to himself, "and it should be added after the potion has simmered for no less than ... " Merlin, this was abysmal. Obviously Desmond Zabar had been copying from his textbook, but from two inches too far down the page. Snape had the urge to tear the parchment in half and hand it back to him. Instead he scribbled at the top of the page. "Congratulations. You are two weeks ahead in your lessons. A pity I do not have a time turner so I can meet you there. F." The "F" he scribbled over four or five times to make it bold and angry-looking.

"You're scribbling awfully hard back there," Hermione drawled. "Shall I get you some more ink?"

Very slowly he lowered the clipboard he was using to write on and looked down at her. "You've rather cheeky tonight. You're lucky it's nearly Christmas; I've let you get away with a dozen things this evening I wouldn't have otherwise."

"Have I ever thanked you for your leniency, Professor?" she asked without turning around.

"Not. Once," he replied, stressing each word harshly.

"Well, that wasn't very polite of me, was it? I suppose I'll have to make it up to you in some way."

"Oh? And pray, tell, Miss Granger, what delightfully whimsical gewgaw will be gracing my desk this weekend? Perhaps one of those puppy dog-eyed Precious Moments figurines with which Muggles are so enamored?"

"I'm cheeky, he says," she muttered. "You know, if we weren't such good friends, I'd be positively taken aback."

"And who says were are… Friends, Miss Granger? That's remarkable presumptuous of you, don't you think?"

"Well, I suppose I'm just holding out for a Christmas miracle," she answered in a very matter-of-fact way. "Believe me when I say though, that I wouldn't read third year potions essays for just anyone. I daresay this is only slightly worse than proofreading Harry and Ron's homework. Though I do sense some hope springing eternal here in Cilia Clemmons." Hermione sat up and handed a roll of parchment to Snape, who took it with an interested look on his face. "Perhaps the latent brilliance she's exhibiting will take the edge off of … Oh, dear. Is that Zabar's?" she asked, noting the red slashes over the page in front of Snape.

Snape gave a nod but said nothing for he was already engrossed in Clemmons's opening thesis. "You know," he drawled after a few more lines, "this one just might be worth teaching one day."

"One day? She's a third year, Sir, how long will you want to wait?"

"Until you're well gone at least," he said dryly. "Do you have any idea what an annoying handful you are? Two geniuses would be quite impossible. Not to mention the competition. Don't think I haven't seen you glare at your own best friends when they get something right in class and you don't."

But Hermione wasn't listening, or rather she'd stopped listing sometime around the word "genius."

She sat back up again and was peering at him intently. "Professor, did you just call me a genius?"

Snape pulled himself away from Clemmons's essay a second time and stared at her. "Well, I certainly can't be the first person to use that word to describe you, now can I?"

She paused and thought about it slowly. "Well, no, Sir. It's just… If someone had told me a year ago that you would some day… Pay me a compliment. Well…" She smiled, pleased, and Snape could tell even in the flickering light of the fire that she was coloring.

He cleared his throat and, trying to remain indifferent, said, "I pay you many compliments, Miss Granger, to be sure. After all, did you or did you not do an excellent job cleaning those cauldrons earlier tonight?"

"Yes, Sir, and I appreciate that you notice my work. It's just..." she said again, trailing off. "It's just, I never thought you'd compliment ME." She stopped and laughed a little nervously. "I'm sorry, that's dreadfully self-indulgent."

Not to be pegged as a kindly old professor bestowing compliments just yet he reminded, "I just called you an annoying handful, told you that you totter on the verge of impossible, you're too competitive, and I've implied that you'd do some bodily harm to your best friends if the situation arose where you were one-upped in class; how on earth did you derive a compliment in all of that?"

"Well, I guess I'm just getting to know you, Sir. And I suppose you're finally starting to make sense to me."

"Well," he drawled sarcastically. "Hell's afreeze." And he gave a little shiver.


End file.
